


Shell-Shocked

by sherlockedbbc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hugging, Johnlock - Freeform, Oneshot, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockedbbc/pseuds/sherlockedbbc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, can John Watson pull himself together and continue on with life? </p><p>In the end, he'll need help from the one person he needs the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For @ilpbones on Instagram :) Consider this an early Christmas present!
> 
> As always, please rate and comment down below! Thank you for reading <3

The day Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart’s rooftop, John’s heart splintered into a million pieces and his mind froze into a numb oblivion. It shattered him; broke him; destroyed him. He died a little every time he remembered his best friend, lifeless, bleeding, broken, lying on the cold, hard ground. 

You are a soldier, he kept telling himself. You’ve seen dozens of your friends die. You’ve learned to make yourself not feel things. Do that now. 

And yet, somehow, everything is different when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. John finds that trying to collect all of his tears and sorrows to put in a locked box in his mind is useless. Every time he finds himself starting to feel, to feel that raw, red pain of losing his best friend, he mentally steels himself and adds another padlock to the box that holds his true feelings.

But one day the box splinters, breaking into fragments of sorrow that scatter themselves around in John’s memory. The padlocks fall away, and John is flooded with those emotions he has tried so long to hold back. It seems that everywhere he looks, a memory of Sherlock Holmes peeps out at him.

The tears come first. Each drop of crystallized sorrow that slides down his cheek is another fresh, painful reminder that Sherlock Holmes is gone. John finds no comfort in tears, no comfort in wracked sobs. 

He breaks down; his mind changes, shifts a little, until his whole life becomes focused on Sherlock Holmes—on what is left behind of him. First John begins pretending that Sherlock is with him, convincing himself that it’s just a little game he’ll play for a while to make himself feel better. But soon it turns into something…else. John begins to refuse to believe that Sherlock is gone. He often finds himself talking out loud to Sherlock, and he can almost believe that Sherlock is there, sitting just across from him in that bored, lazy way like he used to. 

Sometimes when he’s outside, walking in the chilly London air, he catches glimpses of a tall figure in a dark coat. But when he chases after the person, his vision blurs and when he looks closer, no one is there. He tries to convince himself that his mind is playing tricks, but he walks home with a heavy, heavy heart.

Then one stormy, rainy day in London he finds a little card tucked under his doorstep, folded in half. When John opens the card, all he finds is one word. Believe. 

The words are rain-streaked and blurred, but the handwriting looks strangely familiar to John. Can it be…Sherlock’s handwriting? Or is John’s mind deceiving him again?

John rests his head against the doorframe, rain and tears mingling on his cheeks. He watches as the rain washes away the word on the card, until he is left with a soggy piece of paper, the word smeared and barely readable.

He stands out in the rain for hours, tears silently falling from his eyes. He stands out in the rain until the shivering of his body can take his mind off of his grief. He stands out in the rain, wondering if one word can reignite the fire of hope that is dwindling in his chest. 

People pass by him, their heads down and shoulders hunched over under their black umbrellas, hidden and sheltered. If they raise their heads, would they take the time to comfort a broken, hurting man? Would they understand the raw, pained grief of a man who has lost his soulmate?

When John finally reenters the cozy atmosphere of the flat, he is shivering uncontrollably. He makes himself tea and cradles its warmth, but his hands tremble so much that the tea sloshes out of the cup. John only stares at the spill, finding himself too frozen and numb to do anything about it. 

He can’t get warm, no matter how many blankets he bundles himself with or how high he cranks up the thermostat. John curls up on the couch and falls into a fitful, disturbed sleep.

The fever dreams haunt him. He relives that bloodied, broken body, those lifeless eyes, that pallid, pale skin. He sees Sherlock reaching out to him, the tears sliding down those beautiful cheekbones. 

He jolts awake just as Sherlock falls, a shadowy silhouette against the dark, cloudy sky. John clutches the blankets and trembles as he fights to control himself. But he is living on the edge, and his world is spinning, spinning, spinning, out of control, to a place that he cannot reach. 

John begins to whisper, closing his eyes against the tears. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t do this anymore. I give up. I’ve lost all hope. I’ve lost who I am. I need you, Sherlock, I need you more than you can imagine. Sherlock, I’m coming to you. I can’t live this life without you.”

And without thinking, without giving himself time to breathe, he tosses aside the blankets and rushes out the door into the chilly, freezing, London air, and starts walking. His feet take him where his heart leads him to.

St. Bart’s. 

John rushes past dozens of people, and his feet carry him up the stairs. To the rooftop. The rooftop where, three years ago, his best friend fell. 

He hunches his shoulders at the fierce, biting wind and squints as he makes his way to the edge of the rooftop.

He takes each laboring step painfully, as he fights to forget the sight of Sherlock speaking to him from this very spot. He wrestles hard against his mind as he remembers Sherlock crying, Sherlock telling him he wasn’t real, Sherlock saying those two words that meant so much. Goodbye, John. 

John shakes his head, and he looks out at London, his home. There is nothing left for him to live for. 

But he’s leaving this world to enter another. Another world where Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, his best friend, his soulmate, his everything, waits. 

And for the first time in years, John smiles.

He closes his eyes, and jumps.


	2. Chapter 2

But instead of finding air rushing up at him, his body freefalling through the air, John finds his feet planted firmly on the ground, a strong, warm hand grabbing his shoulder, holding him back, holding him from crossing the line of between life and death. 

And a voice that John knows all too well, a voice that has haunted him in his dreams, a voice that he hasn’t heard in three long, long years, fills his ears and sends thrills through his heart. 

“John.”

Oh, that voice! That voice with a thousand inflections, that deep, deep voice that can only belong to one person. The one person that means the most to John, the one person that John is willing to live for.

John doesn’t dare to look up, afraid that if he turns to see the owner of the warm hand on his shoulder, he’ll be disappointed. So he stands there, looking out at London, trying to calm his heart. But without him realizing it, his head turns slowly and the first thing he sees is brilliant, clear green eyes, flecked lightly with blue and silver. 

The world tips and spins in front of John’s eyes, and his heart trembles. Before he collapses to the ground, he sees a dark coat and a blue scarf.

And the only person in the world, the only person who could be wearing them, is Sherlock.

Sherlock manages to catch him before he crumples to the cold cement and hauls him to a sitting position.

Sherlock kneels in front of him and looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry, John.”

John stares at him and whispers, “You’re proof that I’ve finally gone mad, right? You can’t be real.” He stumbles on his words. “You…died. You’re dead.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Believe, John.”

John widens his eyes and inhales sharply as he remembers that one word, that one word that failed to rekindle the hope in his heart, that one word that he now knows Sherlock gave him. It was Sherlock’s handwriting, it had to be.

And somehow, Sherlock is alive. Alive.

And before he can stop himself, he is grabbing Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug to feel the warmth and life pulsing from his best friend, the best friend he buried three years ago. He closes the space between them and kisses him gently, once, on the lips, tasting Sherlock and breathing in the smell that reassures him that he is alive. He holds the kiss for a heartbeat longer than he needs to and then rests his head against Sherlock’s heart, listening to the steady beat that echoes in his brain and fills him with comforting solace.

Sherlock seems a little unaccustomed to such affection but allows his body to melt against John’s as he circles his arms around him in return. He is exceedingly aware of the heat radiating from John and his forehead furrows as he concludes that John is experiencing an extremely high fever (exactly 39.44° Celsius, in fact) but he doesn’t let go of John.

They stand there together, anchored by their embrace against the cold, biting wind, and hold each other, and let their silence wreathe around them.

Then Sherlock steps back a little so he can see into John’s eyes and when he sees that John is fighting hard to keep his emotions under control, he whispers, “John. Let it all out. I’m here for you.”

And with those words John breaks down, sobbing, clinging to Sherlock with every ounce of strength he has left. Sherlock holds him for as long as he needs, and when John is exhausted, drowned in tears, Sherlock rests their foreheads against each other and hesitates a little before pressing a small kiss to John’s cheek, tasting the saltiness of his tears.

John looks deep into his eyes and is somewhat startled to see how soft and gentle Sherlock’s eyes are, the brilliance and intensity of his irises magnified by the tears glimmering in his eyes. 

It’s the last thing he sees before he crumbles to the ground and his vision blurs, blackness seeping in over his eyes.

\---

John wakes up to the sound of beeping and looks around, shocked to find himself in a hospital room, the hospital blankets tucked under his chin. 

His eyes fall on Sherlock and he breathes a sigh of relief as he sees Sherlock sitting in a plastic chair beside his bedside.

John smiles a little and whispers, “Glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d dreamed the whole thing.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “All real. I’m here.”

Sherlock reaches for John’s hand and twines their fingers together, and they both stare down at their clasped hands and all that it symbolizes. 

“Why am I here?” John asks.

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes and John grins. “Obvious, John. You were suffering from an extremely high fever and blacked out. I managed to carry you down from the rooftop and took you to the hospital.”

John sighs and closes his eyes. 

“You should sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

John snuggles deeper down into the blankets and drowsily murmurs, “I love you.” It’s so soft he isn’t sure Sherlock can hear it. 

But just before he slips into a restful, dreamy sleep, he hears Sherlock whisper, “I love you, too.”


End file.
